A Passion Denied (9 page)

Faith looked up from unbraiding Katie’s hair while Marcy dozed in her chair by the hearth. “What’s wrong?” she mouthed, and Charity lightly shook her head before forcing a bright smile. “Brady said to give his goodbyes to everyone, and Beth said good night. She was tired, so she went on up to bed. Faith, why don’t you and I go tuck her in?”

“Brady left? So soon?” Collin glanced up with a frown.

“No doubt exhausted from working with you,” Faith teased. “Or fed up with deceit,” Mitch muttered.

Charity gave her husband a thin smile. “Father, I suggest you teach Mitch a few lessons in strategy.”

Patrick looked up with a chuckle. “I’ll be happy to educate the boy for ya, darlin’.”

Mitch studied the board. “No, thanks, I live with the master.” Charity stuck out her tongue and turned toward the stairs while Faith hurried after her.

“What happened?” Faith whispered.

“I know nothing except that Lizzie’s been crying her heart out. So help me, if John Brady hurt her again . . .” Charity mounted the steps with a groan.

Faith clasped an arm around Charity’s waist to help shore up her strength. “Don’t worry, we’ll get to the bottom of this. Brady would never hurt Lizzie on purpose. There must be a reason. We just need to find out what it is.”

“Oh, there’s a reason all right, and I for one intend to get to the bottom of it. If marriage has done one thing, it’s made me most proficient at dealing with stubborn men.”

Faith chuckled and knocked on Lizzie’s door before gently turning the knob. “A natural outcome, I think. Lizzie? Can we come in?”

A low, broken moan drifted from the bed where Lizzie lay prostrate on her pillow, still clad in her dress.

Her sisters hurried to her side. “Are you okay?”

“No, I’m n-not okay. I’ve l-lost him f-forever.”

Faith crouched by her side. “What do you mean, you’ve lost him?”

Charity lowered herself to the bed with a grunt. “For pity’s sake, you can’t lose him, Lizzie, the man is crazy about you. Did you kiss him?”

“Yes.” Lizzie sniffed and raised up on her elbow.

Charity squinted. “And?”

“I d-did everything you said—sat close on the swing, batted my eyes, and cried enough cracker tears for a whole box of Saltines. But nothing worked. So, yes, I was forced to resort to Plan B.”

Faith stood to her feet. “Oh my goodness, Lizzie, you actually kissed him?”

“Twice,” she muttered. She maneuvered on the bed to sit cross-legged. Her chin began to quiver. “It was the most wonderful thing I’ve ever felt . . .” Her voice trailed into a sob.

Faith and Charity exchanged grins.

“Yes, we know,” Charity said, “but this is no time to start blubbering. Just give us the cold, hard facts. Did he kiss you back?”

Warmth surged to Lizzie’s cheeks at the memory, and she put her hands to her hot face. She closed her eyes. “Kiss me? No, it was more like he devoured me!”

Charity giggled and tried to tuck a foot under her skirt, to no avail. “See? Didn’t I tell you he was a powder keg waiting to blow? Why on earth are you crying? You should be celebrating.”

Lizzie opened her eyes and sniffed. “Because he said it would never happen again. Said he can’t love me that way.”

Faith scrunched her nose. “Why not?”

“He said it was wrong. That I was a little sister to him and nothing more.”

Charity grunted. “Hogwash. No man kisses a sister like that.”

“Exactly. And when I pointed that out, he became colder and angrier than I’ve ever seen. Then he said goodbye and just stalked away.”

Charity’s brows dipped. “Did you try and stop him?”

“Of course! I ran after him, sobbing my heart out, but he just kept going, as if he didn’t even care. I even tried guilt as a last resort, telling him that friends don’t leave when you need them the most.”

“Good girl. Did it work?” Charity leaned in, her shapely brows arched in expectation.

“No, and that’s the worst part.” Lizzie closed her eyes, seeing Brady’s look of pain once again. “He said, ‘No, they don’t,’ and then left, just like that.” Her eyelids fluttered open to a fresh wash of tears. “Don’t you see? It’s over. He doesn’t even want to be my friend.”

“That’s ridiculous. There must be some reason why he’s acting like this, something he’s hiding.” Faith paced the room with a glint in her eyes.

Charity pressed a hand to Lizzie’s arm and sat up straight on the bed. “Wait! That’s it. I remember now.” She squeezed her eyes shut as if to conjure the memory. “He told me once, after we kissed that time, that I wasn’t ready . . . and that he wasn’t ready, either. He said he had things . . . things from his past.” Her eyelids flipped open. “He said I deserved more, and I remember being shocked when he said it. I mean, what more could a woman want than a man like Brady? Faith’s right— he’s hiding something, something so awful from his past that he won’t even let himself look at a woman, let alone fall in love with one.”

Lizzie sat up and wiped the tears from her eyes. “But how do we find out? I don’t think he’ll talk to me, especially now.”

“Oh, we’ll find out all right, trust me.” She waved a hand toward Faith, who helped her to her feet with a grunt. Charity groaned from the effort and rubbed the small of her back. “First thing tomorrow morning, before church, I am going to pay a long overdue visit to my good friend, John Brady.”

Lizzie’s eyes grew wide. “What are you going to say?”

“I don’t know,” Charity said with a lift of her chin, “but I know it will be good. Good enough to rattle his cage and give him something to think about. And you know why?”

Lizzie blinked and Faith smiled.

“No, why?” Lizzie asked in a hush.

“Because you two will be praying, that’s why. John Brady may have the willpower of ten men in fighting against flesh and blood. But it was John Brady himself who taught me that a man hasn’t been born who can fight against prayer and win.” She reached for both of her sisters’ hands and smiled. “Shall we prove him right?”

One of the dim bulbs dangling over Tucker’s Bakery flickered and caught Brady’s eye as he hurried down Connover Street. It barely illuminated the large, crudely scripted sign that hung in the window, obscuring the last word. To him it looked like “Fresh Homemade Dread.”

How appropriate. That’s exactly how he felt—his gut weighted down with a rock-solid loaf of dread. Not to mention pain. His lips twisted into a bitter smile. “The bread of adversity,” he reflected, recalling his reading from Isaiah 30 that morning. He exhaled his frustration with a noisy breath that swirled into the air as he scaled the steps of his apartment, hands buried in his pockets and shoulders hunched. Noting the lights peeking through the Venetian shades in his landlady’s apartment, he quickly glanced through the glass-paned front to make sure the hallway was clear. He turned the heavy knob with the utmost care, desperate to avoid making a noise. It was only nine o’clock, after all, still early enough for a neighbor or two to poke out a head and engage in a chat.

He dug his key from his pocket and carefully inserted it into the lock, then released a sigh of relief when he escaped inside. The door quietly clicked behind him, and he sagged against the wood and dropped his head in his hands. A dull headache was beginning at the base of his head. All at once frustration surged, and he ripped his coat off and hurtled it across the room. It narrowly missed his nautical lamp and landed in a heap on the floor.

“Gosh, Gram would tan my hide if I did that.”

Brady’s muscles jerked. He squinted in the dark. “Cluny? What the devil are you doing here?” He grappled to turn on a small lamp by the door, then whirled around to see Cluny McGee bundled in a blanket on his sofa. His grimy face revealed blue eyes still groggy from sleep. “How in blazes did you get in?”

“Mrs. Cox has a key.” A flash of white teeth gleamed in the dark as Cluny scratched his skinny chest with a touch of bravado. Brady could swear he saw him wink. “I told her she was pretty.”

“Why?”

“Because ladies like that—”

“No, I mean
why are you here
?”

Cluny appeared hurt. “Gosh, Brady, you said I could spend the night sometime, if it was okay with Gram, so here I be.”

Brady charged across the room and yanked Cluny’s covers clean off. The small-framed boy was dressed in the same dirty clothes he’d worn earlier in the week. And the smell confirmed it. “Well, not tonight; you’re going home.”

“Cain’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

Cluny pulled the covers back up in a show of modesty. “I mean, I cain’t. Gram’s gone home to see her sister—Arkansas. She’s sick something awful.”

Brady grabbed a wiry arm and pulled the boy to his feet. “Your mother, then.”

Dirt and freckles merged into one as Cluny scowled. “Shoot, Brady, she ran off with another no-good boyfriend last month. Don’t ya remember?”

The headache began to throb at the top of his skull. His nerves felt like they were twitching under his skin. Brady swore under his breath and slacked a hip. “Isn’t there anybody else you can stay with tonight? A neighbor, a friend?”

Cluny squinted. “I thought you told me I shouldn’t cuss? And come on, Brady, you know you’re the only real friend I have.”

Brady forced his frustration out with a loud blast of air. “I wasn’t cussing, Cluny, I was muttering.”

Cluny arched his pale brows and folded his arms, going on thirty rather than fourteen. “Same thing, far as I can tell.”

Brady groaned and scrubbed his hands over his face, finally relenting with a thin smile. “Okay, Cluny, you’re right. I was cussing and I’m sorry. It’s just that tonight has been the worst night of my life, and God knows this is not the best time for you to be here.”

Cluny’s brows pinched in thought as he peered up through narrowed eyes. “And maybe it is, Brady, ever think of that? Maybe God ‘knows’ you’d be needin’ a real good friend tonight. Ya know, somebody to take your mind off things?”

Brady’s eyes burned as he turned away, blinking hard to dispel the wetness. He bent to pick up the blanket. “Well, get your carcass down the hall and into the tub then, because there’s no way you’re sleeping in my bed until you’re squeaky clean.”

“I ain’t taking your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“No, you’re sleeping in the bed or out in the hall, take your pick. I’ll take the sofa.” Brady headed to the bathroom and tossed the cover in the hamper, then leaned in to turn the faucet of his claw-foot tub.

Cluny followed and propped against the door. He scratched his stomach with a wide yawn. “Why? I don’t want to cause you no trouble.”

Brady studied the slight boy with a hitch in his heart. He was certain that the Southie neighborhood had never produced a more neglected—or dirtier—street urchin in all of Boston. “Because you’re a guest . . . and a good friend.”

Cluny beamed, even through all the dirt. “Thanks, Brady. We won’t be any trouble, I promise.”

The blood in Brady’s veins slowed to a crawl. “We?”

Cluny provided an ample show of teeth that reminded Brady he probably hadn’t seen a toothbrush anytime lately. “Miss Hercules and me.”

Brady pushed a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes.
Lord, no!
He’d forgotten about Miss Hercules. “Where is she?” he whispered, opening his eyes once again, even though he wasn’t quite ready to face the truth.

Cluny grinned from ear to dirty ear. “In your bedroom.” He banged on the doorframe. A deafening bark shook the walls of the flat.

Brady groaned and slowly opened his bedroom door. Miss Hercules lay, in all her matted glory, like the Queen of Sheba. She lifted her head and barked, dominating his nice, clean bed with muddied paws and panting tongue, as only an English sheepdog can.

“Gee whiz, Brady, there was so much ruckus in the hall every time somebody would be a-comin’ or a-goin’, that ol’ Miss Hercules would keep trottin’ to the door and barkin’ like a fiend.” Cluny leaned close and winked, as if man to man. “I need my beauty sleep for the ladies, ya know. After all, it’s you and me, Brady. We got a lot of hearts to break, if you know what I mean.”

Brady hung his head. A faint smile touched his lips despite the sick feeling in his gut. Yeah, he knew. He was already well on his way.